


i'm a screamer (baby make me a mute)

by bookworm1805



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Biting, M/M, Rough Sex, Scratching, shades of d/s, sort of a dom!bottom!michael thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm1805/pseuds/bookworm1805
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rules are simple: do what Michael says until he can’t say anything at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm a screamer (baby make me a mute)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [messyjessy08](https://archiveofourown.org/users/messyjessy08/gifts).



> i wrote this while listening to a constant loop of flesh by simon curtis, so if you really wanna get in the mood i suggest listening to it while you read :)

There’s a darkness inside Michael Jones.

It’s a spark of…something. Something black, something  _other_.

Ever since he was a kid there’s been a fire in his belly he can’t quell. He yells and he screams, but the fire burns on. It builds and it grows until it’s a weight in his chest, a black hole with six arms and ten mouths clawing and scratching and screaming for relief.

It comes out in bursts of violence, the thing burning red hot in his chest as he kicks and throws and breaks everything in his path, and it’s worth it for the ten second burst of relief he feels before the thing returns, quieter and subdued, but there.

It’s always been there, so Michael stops thinking about it after a while. It’s just the way he feels things. Half of his emotions are triggered by external sources, and half come from within, from the thing in his soul with the teeth and the claws.

Don’t get him wrong, it’s not like it’s fucking  _evil_. He’s not three beers and one annoying British prick away from whipping out an axe and bathing in the blood of his foes. He’s not evil, just…restless.

It’s not normal, he knows that much. But when the thing is dormant, he nearly forgets it’s there entirely. He can live a normal, functional life with normal, functional emotions. It’s just that the anger most people have and let go of after a few days doesn’t leave him so easily. It buries inside him and the thing latches onto it, building and building until the pressure is unbearable, and then Michael goes from a guy with slightly over-active anger issues to the harbinger of thunder and violence.

He can feel it pulling at his mind for days before it becomes too much to bear - he presses it down and beats it away, but it’s an exhausting battle he knows he’ll never win. So he succumbs, like he always does, to the ball of hot desperation and confusion inside him the only way he knows how.

Except then Gavin happens, and everything changes.

It doesn’t go away. Fuck, like  _that_  will ever happen.

No, but the thing inside Michael responds to Gavin. It, as fucking weird as it seems, seeks him out. It needs him, calls out to him.

Because Gavin’s the only thing that can satisfy it. Satisfy  _Michael_.

It’s been almost a month, but the heat inside Michael’s chest has grown into an inferno, and he needs it.

He sees Gavin start to notice things are off at dinner. They’re eating chicken and rice, courtesy of Gav’s experimental cooking regiment - experimental not because of the food, but because it’s  _Gavin_  - and Michael’s hands have been trembling since he picked up his fork. Gavin glances at him sidelong, but continues eating without comment. It’s not until he’s clearing their plates and placing them in the sink that Michael comes up behind him, hands balled into fists at his side and rests his forehead against the small of Gavin’s back.

"Take me," he says.

Gavin says nothing. Michael leans into him more forcefully. “C’mon, shithead, you heard me."

Gavin spins around, and Michael puts his hands on the counter behind him on either side of his body. “Sorry, what was that?" Gavin asks, tilting his head as his eyes flash.

"You fucker," Michael curses, starting to shake all over with energy. He steps closer, looks up into Gavin’s eyes and bumps their denim-clad hips together. “Fuckin’  _take me_  you fuck."

His heartbeat is loud in his ears, blood swishing around madly like a kettle set to boil. Gavin licks his lips. He lays his hands on top of Michael’s and wraps his fingers around his wrists as he slowly bends down and grazes his teeth along the column of Michael’s throat. He shudders as Gavin whispers in his ear, “Whatever you say, Michael.”

The game is now in play, and the rules are simple:

Do everything Michael says.

And his first command?

"Push me against the wall, asshole."

*

Michael doesn’t know how they make it to the bedroom.

His shirt is the first thing to go, ripped off in a frenzy of nails and pulling that leaves his ribs tingling with scratch-marks and his hair mussed beyond reason. Gavin drives him against the wall, slams him into it without remorse or care, and licks into his mouth roughly. Michael’s head is spinning and he pushes against Gavin, tries to get him away so he can pull off his shirt too. There’s a struggle, mouths colliding in something closer to a battle than a kiss as they bat and tug at each other’s bodies.

In the end, Gavin wins. It always surprises him how Gavin wins, and the thing in his chest roars in victory.

Michael is pinned very effectively against the wall, with Gavin holding his hands like manacles next to his head. “It’s like you’re not even trying, Michael," Gavin coos in his ear as he bites harshly into the soft part of his neck. Michael grunts and twists his head away, landing a bite of his own on Gavin’s jaw.

Gavin doesn’t like that, or he knows it’s not allowed, so he tightens his grip on Michael’s wrists and forces his thigh between Michael’s. He begins an assault on Michael’s throat, sinking his teeth into his flesh over and over and laving his tongue over the marks before skimming his teeth over each bruise once more.

Michael can’t hear anything over the sound of his own breath synced up with his wild heartbeat, but he knows he’s making noises. He can feel the vibrations in his throat. He bucks into Gavin in a last attempt to dislodge him, but it just spurs Gavin on to return the thrust and slowly slide Michael’s hands higher up the wall.

"I don’t suppose I could persuade you to stay there while I remove your trousers?" Gavin asks with shiny lips and wicked eyes when he pulls back for a moment. His breath fans in Michael’s face, and Michael struggles with himself not to yank Gavin back and beg him to keep going.

"Like fuck," Michael snipes, and Gavin chuckles and bites down on his collarbone.

"I thought as much," he says, and if Michael were in any proper state of mind he’d recognize that tone as affectionate and take the piss out of Gavin for getting sappy in the middle of  _rough sex_ , but he’s not, so he doesn’t.

He comes back up to Michael’s mouth, kissing deeply and getting distracted enough that his hold on Michael loosens and he’s able to free his arms. He makes a grab for Gavin’s shirt first, pulling it roughly off and leaving Gavin looking disgruntled and messy, and Michael wants to be held down and clawed and ripped apart at the mercy of this man forever.

Gavin must see something in Michael, that bit of dark crawling closer and closer to the surface, and suddenly the time for banter is gone.

He attacks Michael with new vigor, rolling their hips together and clenching his nails into the skin at the back of his neck where they now rest. Michael can feel the bruises form, the skin breaking, and then Gavin is running his nails in stripes down his back and Michael yells out and leaves bruises of his own on Gavin’s hips as he pulls him closer.

"H-harder," he pants. Gavin runs his nails around his back horizontally, following the curve of his waist and tearing into the groves of his ribs. He leaves streaks of red down his chest, forms his mouth into the crook of his neck and bites, and the thing in Michael’s chest is beating wildly as it starts to fill in all the empty spaces of Michael’s being.

Gavin wrenches himself away, down to Michael’s waist where he yanks open the button of his jeans and pulls the denim and his boxers down in one go. He bites Michael’s hip as he goes, nibbling and licking and curling his hands into claws around the backs of his thighs. Michael blindly steps out of his things, vision starting to blur in the hazy unfocus that always comes with unleashing himself so fully in this way.

There’s a brief moment where Gavin is hovering over Michael’s cock, deep red and dribbling precome at the head, and Michael nearly shouts at him to get on with it, but Gavin only kisses it teasingly on the head and pulls himself up.

"You fuck!" Michael yells, and he shoves Gavin onto the bed, where he falls back into the neatly made sheets. He climbs on after him, and then they’re kissing and tangling together, and the denim on Gavin’s legs is rough everywhere it shouldn’t be, but it burns in such a sweetly bitter way. He ruts against it when he can, when their bodies aren’t in constant motion trying to overthrow the other.

It’s a wrestling match that Michael is going to lose, but that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be fought.

When Gavin does finally come out on top, they’re both wholly out of breath and redfaced, and Michael is fit to burst with everything he’s holding inside. He wants to scream and beg, pull Gavin on top of him, inside him, all around him, but he can’t, not yet not yet not yet—

Gavin raises his fingers to Michael’s throat, feels the pulse racing quick and deadly, like a trigger getting ready to shoot. He leaves Michael panting on the bed while he sits up and removes his pants, and Michael closes his eyes to collect the remaining fragments of his sanity. When he returns, Michael feels his heat in all the places their sweaty warm bodies meet. Gavin’s dick slides in the moist of his abdomen, where sweat has been collecting with precome.

Michael pushes up into him, only to be held down firmly by the hips. He snaps open his eyes in frustration, and then Gavin starts biting down his chest and Michael can’t think to be annoyed, can’t do anything but groan and heave as teeth and tongue assault every inch of exposed flesh. Teeth closer around his nipple, and Michael is screaming and thrashing, but the hands do not relent, nor does the mouth, and his hands feel restless so he wraps them around Gavin’s wrists in a punishing grip.

Gavin’s hands clench and he lets his nails dig in a little, and Michael responds in kind until they’re both panting and bruised and even then Gavin continues to lick and bite the skin from his bellybutton up to his shoulder. He’s gonna look like a regular 50s housewife at this rate, beat up and purpling and torn apart, but it’s what Michael wants. What he  _needs_.

And then Gavin stops. Michael looks at him, but he’s just sitting there on his knees. He doesn’t know what’s happening, what he’s waiting for, but then he remembers.

Do everything Michael says.

So Michael tells him.

"Take me," he commands, voice sounding breathy and wrecked to his own ears. Gavin obeys, gripping his waist and flipping him onto his stomach violently. He shoves Michael’s face into the bed, holds it there as he fits himself on top of him and slides his cock along the crack of Michael’s ass. Michael grunts and gets a mouthful of sheets, and he balls up the material in his hands as they continue to quiver.

This gets Gavin’s attention, and then he’s grabbing Michael’s arms and holding them above his head once more, pinning them to the bed as he bites at the back of his neck and begins to leave his marks.

"Harder," Michael breathes. “Harder. Make me beg, make me fucking  _beg_ ," he says, and that’s a plea in and of itself, one that Gavin takes to heart as he keens into Michael’s ear and bites harshly at the muscles of his upper arm.

"You will, my little Michael," he promises, clenching tightly around the reddening skin of his wrists. He times this with another thrust, this time his cock sliding into the sweaty groove of Michael’s spine, and Michael shouts and writhes. “You will."

Gavin starts to reach a hand around to loosen Michael up, but Michael shakes his head against the bed. “Not this time."

And Gavin listens, because those are the rules.

Everything is still for a moment.  The darkness in Michael is overwhelming now, so devastatingly strong in its fight to be free, screaming and clawing and tearing at the seams of his shoulders and knees and his eyes and mouth, and everything is buzzing and strange and he needs this, needs it needs it needs it—

Then there’s pain, blinding pain, and Michael is screaming as it hits him in waves, sending him spiraling into a maze of red hot agony and bliss. Gavin only stops for a moment before thrusting in again, and there are claws tearing down his back, ripping him open and sending the darkness fettering out in pieces through the long seam of his spinal cord.

But the bits that stay, that are too big to fit through the opening, pulse and grow as they shriek for release. Michael does the same, hands twisting in the bedsheets and sweaty forehead mashed into the pillow. Teeth close around a shoulder blade as nails reach around to claw at his chest, and Michael writhes and screams at the unrelenting pressure building up in all the corners and seams of his body.

“ _More_ ," is all Michael has left in him to say, and he’s begging now, desperate beyond all measure as wetness builds up in his tightly shut eyes and moistens the sheet beneath his face. It’s all mindless and instinctual, moaning pleas of Gavin’s name with every exhale and telling him to bite, suck, claw, tear, take him apart and make him  _bleed._

Then there’s a firm grip around his cock and the pleasure is overriding the pain, and every strip of flesh peeled off his skin and every drop of blood is a release, the pressure lifting and floating away, and the bites into his shoulders are sweet bruises of ecstasy. His screams start to quiet because he can hardly speak, hardly breathe, the air is so tight and the pleasure is so great and a hand is tearing at his scalp and he gasps and bucks up but he makes no sound.

He’s flying so high, everything inside him is pulsing and jumping and vibrating around at molecular levels higher than the speed of sound, everything is too fast, too much, and he’s consumed by the sensations of teeth and nail and the hard brutal push of Gavin filling him, over, inside, on top, all around, and he’s splitting apart everywhere—

—at his elbows and ankles, the crook of his neck –

—and his back is flayed apart, skin bursting open to make way for the darkness clawing from the inside out, pushing through every bruise and scratch and every drop of blood until his skin is tattered and threadbare and Michael tries to scream, tries to beg and plead for more,  _more more more_ , he’s so close he can see nirvana, can see the end of the pressure and the pain and the restless darkness in his soul—

but he can’t, and all he can do is gasp and shake as his body flies apart and his soul is torn asunder, the hand on his cock stripping him furiously, and in a final surge of pressure everything dark rips out the seams in his skin and it’s agonizing and perfect, and he’s finally at the peak and everything inside him breaks and explodes out in a great wave and all he can see is white, and he feels nothing and knows nothing but ecstasy and weightlessness.

*

He wakes to the sensation of something cool and damp pressing between his thighs and rubbing circles into his skin. Lips kiss reverently down his back after each gentle swipe, and his arm twitches as he regains conscious feeling.

He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know it’s Gavin cuddling up to him and wiping him down. He’s always been very proactive about aftercare.

So he lets himself sink into the bed, relaxing every muscle and feeling them start to ache and the small cuts on his back burn with the application of water. Gavin murmurs into his shoulder blades, probably stupid made up British words that are his equivalent of pillow talk, and any other time Michael would roll his eyes and smirk in amusement but he takes comfort in them now, lets them seep quietly into his skin and fill up all the places he’s been broken and torn apart.

Gavin gently rolls him over when he’s finished with his back, and Michael holds back a groan as he settles down on the many bruises he’s sure are lining up and down his spine. Gavin sets to work on the bruises on his neck, patting them softly and moving down to the red lines streaking and crisscrossing over his chest. Michael hardly feels the pain, not while he’s still feeling so light and free.

"Lost you for a moment there, love," Gavin speaks quietly, taking one of his arms gently and dabbing at the thick red band around the wrist.

Michael gives him the other arm and smiles sort of stupidly. “Yeah, but that was fucking tippy top," he grumbles. Gavin meets his eyes with a small smile and shakes his head as he tends to the other wrist. He wipes Michael’s stomach down again, and Michael puts a hand on top of his. Gavin looks up again. “Really though," he says. “Thank you. That was—you were perfect."

Heat rises to Gavin’s cheeks and his eye lashes flutter a few times before he looks away. Michael cuddles closer to him anyway, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and placing a kiss on his forehead. “You were perfect," he repeats, because he knows Gavin needs to hear it.

This time Gavin lays his hand on Michael’s, and pushes their fingers together against his neck. He places a delicate kiss on the inside of Michael’s forearm, a swatch of skin that went totally unmarked during the evening’s proceedings.

"C’mon, you need to rest," Gavin says, and now Michael rolls his eyes. Nevertheless, he lets himself be carefully snuggled and spooned around until he feels the need to interrupt angrily “I’m not made of your mom’s fucking porcelain china, you know," at which point Gavin’s cuddles become more aggressive and he finds himself flipped onto his side and slotted neatly against Gavin’s body in the dictionary definition of ‘little spoon’.

But he falls asleep with Gavin’s soft hair brushing the back of his neck and warm lips mouthing along his skin. His flesh seals itself up along every line and crevice that their bodies meet, which is everywhere because Gavin isn’t a person but a presence, a warm and soft blanket of light that pours itself into all his empty spaces, filling him to the brim, and now his kettle is boiling over with light and peace and the soft serenity of being loved.

And there’s no room for the darkness, not tonight.


End file.
